[ The migraine is to be expected. Even though she didn't get caught in the paraboloid's blast radius directly, that kind of proximity to any entroponetic tissue, no matter how compressed, is never good. Plus, the headphones she had with her were cheap pieces of shit. Her good pair is back in her lorry.

She must have passed out on the coast, off of Land's End. From the shock. Ruby tells herself it's shock, because shock is predictable, safe. Well-studied. You don't lose yourself to shock. That's the kind of thing you come back from.

Ruby lies against the rocks, curled up tight, the waves beating against her body. Her skin is cut, oozing an iridescent substance that must be Pale, if Pale could ooze. (She doesn't know how right she is.)

She listens to the white noise. It's the closest you can get to sounding like nothing. It sounds like

YOUR SLURRED, CROAKING VOICE REACHES FOR SOMETHING FUNDAMENTAL FOR CONNECTION WITH YOUR FELLOW MAN YOU RECITE THE BEAUTIFUL WORDS TO THE WEARY TRAVELER AND YOU HOPE THAT BY VIRTUE OF HIM FINDING MEANING IN THEM YOU WILL LEARN WHO YOU ARE

the fog rolling in.

And deep in that fog, Ruby doesn't notice the little crab scuttling up towards her ankles. ]

[ Ruby's current running theory is that there's something in the air here, some kind of weird, fucked-up pollution, that's making her see shit. And hear things. (And remember, but that's a strong word, one that she doesn't like to use.)

So this carpet, this hallway -- it's another vision, right? It's Evrart's office except it isn't. She's probably processing what Titus did to her, or something. It doesn't really matter. Ruby just needs to find an exit, or wake herself up, or do something that'll get her out of here.

The only thing she can do, at first, is wander. The deeper she goes, the smellier the place becomes, the damp underneath her feet making the nastiest of sounds.

Seeing another person isn't much of a comfort. What if they're a part of this place? Ruby stops several feet away from you, eyes narrowed and assessing, her right hand on her gun. ]

...What are you doing here?

[ You probably shouldn't have picked up that book.

At first, it seems to be a fairly standard amateur radio magazine. But then you turn the page, and everything goes white.

It feels like you're caught in the middle of a wind turbine, except there's no wind. Your head is pounding, ringing with white noise. It's all nothing, all the way down, and the nothingness exerts pressure, like being trapped deep underwater. It becomes difficult to breathe, much less speak. Distantly, you hear the crackle of static, music interspersed with some advertisement about a device that keeps your balcony twenty degrees cooler mixed with another, steadier voice reading out a long chain of numbers.

Through it all, however, one voice comes through crystal clear: ]

I know you're feeling pretty uncomfortable right now.

( ooc: throw me another prompt, if you like! feel free to pm this journal for additional plotting. )